Chapter 7

My head was spinning.

I took the recorder and walked a little farther away from the direction Bella had gone and listened to the message again. I furrowed my brow, concentrating on each and every word and hoping something—anything—would spark a memory.

The only thing I could confirm was that it was Demetri's voice on the recorder. Outside of that, I had nothing. I played the last part over again, and each word felt like a punch in the gut.

"Hope everything's going as you planned! Good luck!"

Everything going as you had planned. As I had planned. I planned this? What part? Did I plan a plane crash? That made no sense at all. I could have been killed, and I was completely sure I wasn't suicidal.

But I don't actually remember a crash.

What if there was no crash? If that was true, how did Bella and I get here? And why Bella? Why would I plan to be marooned with Bella Swan? I barely remembered her.

All right, that wasn't completely true. I'd been obsessed with her in high school, but that was more than a decade ago. Maybe I'd thought of her from time to time, but not in years.

The magazine article.

The thought was in my head without any reference point to go with it. What magazine? What article? Had I read something about Bella recently?

"Why can't I fucking remember?" I muttered as I rubbed the back of my head. There was still a small spot of tenderness at the base of my skull.

Felix.

I had worked with both Demetri and Felix on many occasions, but never really figured out what their job titles were. If the key players in Volturi Industries were represented by the characters in Oliver Twist, then Aro was Fagin, Demetri was the Artful Dodger, and Felix was Bill Sikes. Both Demetri and Felix were guys who got things done, and not always the kinds of things the board of directors would approve of. They were key elements in acquisitions and hostile takeovers, but I never knew exactly what it was they were tasked with doing.

No one did. That was the point.

Except you do. You do know.

I shook my head as the unfamiliar thought came into my head. Much like the idea of a magazine article, I wasn't sure where it had come from. The confusion was overwhelming, but it was laced with something else—something dark and foreboding. I glanced around the jungle, my eyes darting from one unfamiliar sight to another, and fear replaced confusion.

My hands were shaking as I stared down at the recorder, realizing I had nowhere to stash the device where Bella wouldn't notice it. Without another obvious option, I quickly placed it back where I had found it, making sure it was completely covered. As soon as I had done so, I grabbed it again, quickly deleting the message that had been stored on it before placing it back in the brush. The last thing I needed was for Bella to find that recorder and hear what Demetri had said.

I'd have to return to record a new message—tell Demetri that the blow on the head was too hard, and that I didn't know what was going on—but for now I needed to return with some wood before Bella noticed how long I had been gone.

I shouldn't have worried. When I returned to the cabin with arms full of logs, I found I had beaten Bella back. I quickly placed the logs in the crate and looked over to the fireplace, checking out the nearby floorboards. Now that I knew to look for it, it was immediately obvious that one plank of wood was misaligned. An elongated, triangular gap between two boards opened into darkness, but in the firelight, I saw the glint of something metal inside.

As I started to kneel down to look closer, I heard the scarp of the door opening, and Bella came inside, arms loaded with small pieces of wood.

I startled and looked to her quickly, hoping my face wasn't turning red. Bella wasn't looking at me though. In fact, she didn't make eye contact or say anything as she placed the kindling near the fireplace.

Looking out of the corner of my eye, it was clear she had been crying. Our previous conversation must have taken a lot out of her, and I thought maybe it would be best to keep talking to a minimum. I tried to examine the floor board with as much subtlety as possible, and I could see the nails had been pulled out of it, but that was about it. The angle was wrong to see anything else. Clearly, I wasn't going to get a chance to see what was inside the little cubby hole under the floor tonight—at least, not until Bella fell asleep—but I couldn't help staring at it. As soon as I realized I was doing that, I looked away, feeling my face flush.

Could you possibly act any more guilty?

Guilty of what, though? What had I done? And why? Why would I want to put myself in this position? Was it about the island? About Bella? Something else?

I had no idea.

Bella sat down with a thump, right on top of the loose floorboard.

I looked away, took a deep breath, and licked my lips. At least the temptation to look had been removed. Now I could think about her ass sitting on top of whatever was under the floor. What could it be? What would I ask for? Survival supplies? I wouldn't even know what items would be the most beneficial. Booze? That would be quite welcomed at the moment. I could use a good, stiff drink right about now.

Whatever it might be, it probably wasn't a journal detailing why I asked to be put here. That alone would help me understand what was going on here.

I shook my head minutely, not wanting to draw Bella's attention. She seemed to be focused on the flames licking over the driftwood, so I didn't need to worry that she would somehow glance over and read my mind.

Outside, the grey sky turned to black as night replaced day. Bella and I sat close to the glowing coals as the firelight burned low, nibbling the remains of our dinner. The meal hadn't cleared my mind enough to answer any questions.

I was sure I wouldn't have intentionally let myself be in a plane crash, so how did I get here? If I was responsible for all of this, how did I end up unconscious on the beach?

You did say to make everything realistic…

Realistic. Realistic, as in—make it look real. Realistic, as in—like a real plane crash.

There was no plane.

But what about my memories of going through security and ordering a drink from the flight attendant? If I remembered those details, I surely must have boarded a plane. And after that…what?

"How long have we been here, anyway?"

"This will be the third night," Bella replied, which is the first inclination that I had actually asked the question aloud. "So, three days, I suppose."

That seemed accurate, but how long had it been from the time I ordered a drink from the flight attendant and the moment I woke up on the beach?

"What time did the plane take off?" I asked.

"I don't remember." Bella frowned. "Early morning, maybe?"

I usually tried to fly early to avoid crowds going through security, so that fit. Of course, I had no idea what time it was when I woke up in the sand, so it didn't help to determine any sort of timeline. Reflexively, I glanced at my wrist, which was the first time it occurred to me that my watch was gone.

No watch. No phone. No way to determine how much time had passed, and no focused memories of what had happened. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced the recording from Demetri must have been accurate. This was clearly some kind of set up.

But to what end?

"I guess you expected to be test-drinking a lot of rum by now, huh?"

Bella startled me from my thoughts, and it took a second to construct an answer to her question.

"That was the plan, yes," I replied. "Mostly it was going to be about the equipment, but you can't tell how well it's working without a little taste here and there."

"I have a confession to make," Bella said.

"What's that?"

"I hate rum." She laughed. "Can't stand the stuff. Give me vodka any day."

"Vodka has no taste whatsoever," I countered. "It's vile. That's why you have to mix it with fruit juice just to be able to tolerate it."

"And you can drink rum straight?"

"If it's good rum, yes, of course. Maybe you've never had good rum."

"I suppose that's possible. Maybe you've never had good vodka."

"I've had a lot of vodka," I said, laughing. "Too much in college, honestly. That's probably why I avoid it now. There's a story in there, but I'll spare you the gory details."

"I thought most people had those kinds of stories about tequila?"

"I'm just an aberration. Tequila and I get along fine."

"I would kill for a margarita right now."

"That sounds mighty fine," I agreed. "To tell the truth, I'd settle for vodka at this point."

"If you had rum, I wouldn't refuse it." Bella let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "I'd fight a life-long alcoholic for the last stale can of Natty-lite beer right about now."

"Natural Lite? Really?" I wrinkled my nose.

"The beer of choice for broke college coeds!" Bella snickered. "We lived off that stuff."

I had never been so out of cash as to drink cheap beer, so I said nothing. We sat in silence for a while as I tried not to think about what might be under the floor board below Bella's ass, then started thinking about her ass and what it might feel like to have my hands dug into her butt cheeks. I shifted a little where I sat and made myself think about something else.

But wait…could that have something to do with it? Had my high school crush on this girl have been rekindled when I saw her in a magazine, and I had somehow decided to orchestrate an elaborate…an elaborate…what? What was this? A plan? A scheme? A kidnapping?

I shuddered.

"Do you remember anything more?" Bella suddenly asked.

"About what?" I asked. I glanced at her sideways, fearing she'd read my mind. Remembering what we had been talking about, I went with my best guess. "College drinking?"

"No, the plane."

"The plane?" I repeated like an idiot.

"Yes." She kept her eyes on the fireplace as she added a log. "The plane and…and right before the plane."

"Why? What happened right before the plane crash?"

"I'm not sure." She glanced over at me. "I've been thinking about it, and I definitely can't remember the crash, but I don't remember much else about it either."

"Like what?"

"Like, I don't know how I go to the airport. I remember going through security and getting on the plane, but not waiting for my zone to be called. I don't travel a lot, so when I do, I usually poke around the airport shops for a bit. I buy snacks or a state magnet…"

"A state magnet?"

"I collect them." Bella blushed. "It reminds me which states I've visited. I like to find ones that are in the shape of the state, and then I put them on my refrigerator to make a map. Never mind. It's silly."

"That's not so silly. Maybe someday, you'll get to them all."

"That's the idea." Bella beamed. "I'd love to have one from every state. Anyway, I don't remember looking through the airport shop at all."

"Maybe you were running late," I suggested.

"Maybe, but you'd think I'd remember that, too. I always try to get places early, and I hate being late. If I were running late, I think I'd know because it would have upset me."

"But you don't remember being upset."

"No, I don't. I don't even remember if I drove to the airport or got a ride. I remember going through security. They can never seem to make up their minds about whether or not your laptop has to be out of the case or not, and the security guy gave me crap about it…"

"Wait…what?"

"The security guard," Bella said again. "I said something pithy about them changing their minds about what was the safe way to go through security, and apparently that ticked off the TSA guy, and I ended up getting the whole pat-down thing. I hate that."

"Huh." I looked at her quizzically. "I ended up getting searched, too." I almost said something about having a similar exchange about laptops, but held my tongue. "What else do you remember?"

"I remember sitting on the plane," she said. "I ordered a drink from the attendant, and I ended up spilling it in my lap. That was about the last thing I—"

"You spilled your drink?"

"Yeah."

"In your lap?

"Yes. Why?"

"Because I spilled my drink."

"What were you drinking?" Bella asked.

"A screwdriver," I answered immediately. My hand went to the spot on my thigh where the material was still just a little be rough and sticky.

"You were drinking vodka? I thought you didn't like it.

"I…I don't."

"You can still feel where you spilled it, can't you?"

"Yeah."

"So can I, and it leads into what I can only think of as bullshit."

"What are you saying?" I asked, though I knew exactly what her answer was going to be.

"I'm saying, I don't think we were in a plane crash at all. In fact, I'm starting to think we were never on a plane. I think someone put us here, Edward. I think we were knocked unconscious, probably drugged, and left here."

. . . . .

Chapter end notes

I'm sorry for the long break without any updates. Please keep telling me what you think! I'm trying to get myself in the writing headspace, but I'm still struggling. Your love helpsa bunch! 3